


Dismantle

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Matrix (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she knew what the matrix was, before she woke up, before she ever unravelled the riddles of the world, she ran into an Agent.  Trinity/Smith</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dismantle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ally

 

 

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. 

A/N: For Ally. Merry Christmas! 

_Dismantle_

The streets of the city are choked with people even at this late hour, and although she can almost hear the circulation of air in thousands of lungs, the rest of the world drowns it out. It almost angers her that she cannot dig it up, cannot unearth it from the cacophony of humanity. It's just one sound, one long, thunderous breath that she wants to listen to -- proof of man's existence, perhaps -- and she is positive she could hear it, if only she could peel away the layers of unnecessary noise that wrap around in a smothering cocoon. 

Morgan shakes her head, almost smiling. It's just a twitch of the lips in her normally stern countenance, but it's enough to bring her back to the present and the problem she is trying to work out in her mind. She still studies decryption, even in the world of flesh and blood; at any rate, it should be easier to figure out this particular problem than to hear the combined breathing of the city. 

She stares at the sidewalk, watching the cracks go by beneath her feet as she lets her legs carry her where she will, her eyes studying the bits of trash adhered to the concrete, never quite clinging to the soles of the shoes that pass over them, and mulls over the worrisome puzzle that presented itself to her not an hour ago. It's a frustrating problem that refuses to untangle itself from the layers upon layers of code that form her encryption program. Something is happening within the code - some sort of glitch that ruins the process by the time it reaches its end, so that she is left with nothing but an easily decipherable mess. 

Morgan sighs heavily. Writing one's own encryption program is a necessary step in understanding the deciphering of encrypted information, but she feels well and truly stuck, and is out of caffeine. She'd hopped up and stormed out of her apartment in an attempt to get her blood flowing in her disused limbs again, but she just feels more and more tired, and the night is chilly as it teeters on the precipice of winter. Shivering, Morgan wraps her leather jacket more tightly around her, and tries to clear her mind of all thought, concentrating on the swing of her legs and the whispering wind against her ears. Perhaps the quandary is like an illusion. If she can look at it out of the corner of her eye for a bit, perhaps she will see something there that she had not noticed before. Sometimes the solution comes when one least expects it. She is sure that she is missing something, something huge and important. 

It's there for her to find; if she could spot the curtain, she could pull it back and reveal the answer that hid behind it. 

Morgan pauses briefly to buy a cup of straight espresso with the little precious cash she owns, and tries not to think about what this indulgence will cost her in food. All the more reason to buy this little treat that might help her stay awake long enough to solve the problem, earn a little more money, and a little more time. She is so close to something big. 

Continuing her solitary walk, Morgan enters one of the city's parks; she isn't afraid -- there isn't anyone around, but she can hear if anything stirs, and the gun hidden under her jacket is at hand. If anything moves withing a hundred feet of her, she can have it trained on them in moments. She made it a point to practice when she got it. She sits down on a bench and lets the warmth of the coffee seep through the paper cup and into her hands, the steam tickling her cold nose. 

Morgan closes her eyes and sniffs, inhaling the remnants of a cold and the scent of coffee into her lungs. She feels comforted by it, and tries to let her mind melt into that state in which she can concentrate on nothing but the complexity of the problem at hand. 

"Having fun, Trinity?" 

Even as she shrieks, startled, and spills scalding coffee over her hands and lap, her blood is running cold. 

No one should know that name. No one at all. 

Within seconds her pistol is in her hand, trained at the head of the man sitting next to her. Dimly, as though in a dream, it registers in her mind that he is completely calm, clad in a dark suit and dark glasses, despite the fact that it nearly midnight. But she doesn't care if he can see. Better for her if he can't. 

"Get away from me," she says, voice steady despite the thundering of her heart, and now the thoughts of murder and kidnaping and torture and rape come pouring in, drowning out her shadow-name, and her fingers tremble on the trigger. 

The man just snorts. "I wouldn't do that, if were you." 

"Get away," she repeats. Her cheeks are cold, and her toes are numb, and now she wants to go home. 

"Don't you want to know how I found you, Trinity?" he asks, standing slowly and turning toward her, and she hears in his voice a bored cadence that lilts strangely in her ears. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tells him. She's practiced this over and over in her mind, disavow all knowledge, get away. "Who the hell are you?" 

He smiles, coldly predatory. "Call me Smith, Trinity. Agent Smith." 

It's all crashing down around her, they've found her and she's going to spend the rest of her life in a dank prison eating hardtack and getting violated by guards. 

"Where's your back-up?" she demands. "You must have back-up." There is no use denying who she was now, she supposes. Vaguely, she feels as if she had already shed her other life, her life lived in the real world, and is no longer Morgan Daniels, freelance coder. It is weird, this sensation of stepping into a new skin, the same as her old skin but somehow completely different. It's exhilarating. Morgan Daniels would not shoot a government agent. 

But Trinity might. 

"I don't need back-up," he replies. "I'm just here to talk; to warn you, if you will." He is staring at her intently from behind his dark glasses. 

"I don't need any warnings," she says. "And I don't believe you. Leave. Or I shoot." 

Another quick, feral smile in the dark, distant streetlights shining on his white teeth. "Trinity," he says, and it sounds as if he is tasting her name on his tongue, and not finding it wanting. He moves toward her. 

Trinity fires. 

For a split second, his figure blurs in front of her, and then his hand is on her throat, bearing her to the ground. His other hand is holding her wrist in a painful grip, causing her to drop her gun, and she can't breathe against his weight on her. 

He's straddling her hips, pushing her into the rough earth, and he leans down and places his mouth against her ear. 

She shudders as he chuckles. "That wasn't very wise, now, was it? Tsk, and we thought you were so smart." 

She doesn't know what to think -- her mind has gone blank, and she registers fear coursing through her veins, but it all seems far away. The world has narrowed to a pinpoint: just his mouth against her skin, making her shiver. 

"What do you want with me?" she whispers. 

"Just this," he answers, and the sibilant hissing of his words wash over her neck. "Cease your search. Do not try to find him." 

She stiffens in response. 

"Yes," he says, "we know who you're searching for. If you are wise, you will not continue. Do I make myself clear?" 

Trinity nods, her eyes tightly shut, panting heavily. 

"Good girl." 

And then he is gone, as if he had never existed. Trinity lays, sprawled on the ground, for an eternal moment before suddenly leaping to her feet, grabbing her weapon, and running. She runs, dodging through the city in an almost mindless panic. She has to leave, has to run, can't let them catch her, and her chest burns with her cold breath. 

She pounds into the breezeway beneath her apartment and runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time, slipping, scraping her shin, getting up and going on, vaulting the last few steps. Her keys are already in her hands as she jams them into the door and swings herself inside, slamming it behind her and leaning back. 

Agent Smith is standing in front of her. Trinity can only stare at him, mouth set in a thin line, daring him to say something. For some reason, she is not surprised to find him here in her shit apartment, stupid, arrogant smirk on his face. She doesn't try to shoot him again. She's already seen that it doesn't work. 

"It seems you are a smart girl, after all, Trinity," he says, smirk growing more insufferable. 

She opens her mouth, but suddenly he is flush against her, his hand over her lips. 

"Screaming would not be prudent," he informs her. 

There is nothing she can do but be insulted. She gives him a glare as best she can, though his face is nearly out of her line of sight. She is pressed against the door. His elbow is pressed painfully into her right shoulder, paralyzing her arm, and his hand is around her left wrist. She can feel his thumb grazing her hip. Their clothes are shuffling together, and she can smell him. He doesn't smell like anything at all. His skin is cold as ice, and for just a moment she feels as though he is merging into her flesh, stealing her heat. 

He leans back slightly. "Do not run. We can find you. Be good, and you'll be alive." 

Trinity closes her eyes, trapped, and she can feel the universe slipping and sliding away from her, strange currents she never even knew were there converging and dividing, beneath the surface of the world. 

He is so fast. Within a second he is gone, and Trinity is on the ground, looking at the open doorway. She can still taste his skin on her tongue. 

"Fuck you," she whispers, and kicks the door shut. 

She doesn't care if they know what she's doing and logs on, the adrenaline still pumping through her veins, hands still shaking. She still searches. No matter what they do, she'll never stop. 

Trinity licks her lips, and tastes danger and change, a thread of fate woven, never to be undone. She's excited rather than afraid, and the specter of him hovers over her shoulder, listens to her whisper to herself in the glow of the monitor, over the clacking of keys, as she searches the world over, seeking to decrypt his riddle. 

 


End file.
